venerdì 16 settembre 2016

This essay was originally published at Counter-Currents in the USA and subsequently published by Euro-Synergies in Brussels. It basically argue that Shakespeare had the advantage of writing at the dawn of the Golden Age of Elizabethan Theater. His work, no matter how dark, ends on a sunny note. In juxtaposition, the author suggest that Céline was writing at a kind of Spenglarian dusk when Western Civilization was entering decline. So Céline's work carries a more muted glint of light. Much of the article, written in somewhat Célinean language, gives testimony to the decline in Philadelphia.

Last night I ushered at the local Shakespeare Theater. I had to look the part. So I bought shoe polish at the dollar store, lathered my loafers three (3) times, and glossed my footing. Meanwhile, I discovered the secret of Chinese shoe shine exporters: mix dog shit and lard, slip it in a tin, seal it with a Royal English label.

Dollar stores in Philadelphia must carry all brands of shudras. It’s a footnote in federal non-discrimination posters. Freedom Dollar Store more or less complied. A tall Jamaican worked and preened as a bouncer, a short Mayan-Mexican worked and worked as a stock boy, and a stout Paki in ahijab worked as the owner-overseer from a raised deck with a battery of cash-registers. Finally, a Dominican with rosy lipstick ran the main register and did the dirty-work of taking money. Ha. Ha. I mean she did the dirty-work of interfacing with every fugitive, sickling, church-lady, doped-up mumbler and cheap urban gigolo who counted pennies on the counter.

The Dominican was very nice. Authentically nice. She wasn’t some missionary White Liberal signaling her love of poor darkies for all to see. I think, speaking of trade secrets, that the Dominican girl’s strategic advantage was that she didn’t give a shit. 1) She didn’t give a shit about the backsliding American Blacks need to show, via the stink eye, a smug hatred of Whites. 2) She didn’t give a shit about the USA’s enterprising spirit and/or Judeo-Christian blather which means, for the wage earner, the freedom to work faster and faster to go deeper and deeper in debt while buying costlier and costlier crap. Because the island girl was a champion at handling the leery niggers, stumbling mongrel junkies, and freelance critics who walked in the door, the Paki overseer gave her space. She let the Dominican work at her own fresh and breezy rhythms which are most alien to Filthadelphia.

Life is rich at bottom. A White racist can learn valuable lessons from non-Whites who’ve adjusted to the truth and lies of devolving America. The brown Dominican girl will be just as free and lovely when Western Liberal Plutocracy goes down the toilet. Why? Because her womanly discipline is to be free and lovely right now, regardless of empty promises blabbed by wooly race hustlers, porked-pink politicians and blah, blah, blah. She’s a sparkling gem. Her counterpart is the Black bus driver who’s well seated. Almost like a post-volcanic island. Almost like the Rock of the Ages. But surely the well-seated Black bus driver is like Our Lord’s humble proxy, a salty apostle at the helm of the rolling boat while currents of assholes and elbows flow on the street. And trickled on and off the bus, ebbing and flowing like h-o-p-e.

If you’re a thinking bub with a mind to study a non-White who’s reconciled, within his own cultural referents, the metaphysical truth that we’re all equal in Almighty God’s eyes with the material truth that humanity is a mixed bag? Look to the African-American bus driver. My present point is that the increasingly angry Whiteman can learn from post-disappointment Blacks. Perhaps meta-mature Blacks. On a personal level, even as nailed Christians they don’t give a shit about you. They don’t care whether you’re racist or non-racist or grey in your skin. They solely care about being true to their own inner-standards of Soldier of God comportment. The very best Black bus drivers are bible driven. As Baptists, they are what Evola would call late and faded echoes of the Heroic Navigator. Very late. Very faded. Very barely tuned to the stellar pulse of Aryan lore.

Maybe it’s more like the best Black bus drivers have taken the Hippocratic Oath: First do no wrong. Which reminds me of the trade-secret of Philadelphia’s 5 Star Hospitals. At the pinnacle of tech and brainpower, you get a variation of the same muffled bullshit that passes for harmony on the street. The working truth is that it’s the bosomy White nurses, the modestly high-IQ and pathologically caring goy women, who interface with the human wreckage. They wipe hurt butts, clean pus from fetid wounds, and handle blood and urine samples. If they’re to be trusted with intellectual labor, then they translate aching and garbled complaints into medical terms for the international elite doctors who enter the treatment room like NWO super-stars. The Indians, Asians, Israelis, and shellacked Iranians who ultimately make the call: emergency surgery or modulated therapy or pasty white placebo. A Caucasian Male MD, hired into the hospital on 30-year probation as a congenital but dormant racist, would say that I’m exaggerating the truth. Ha. Ha. A fey diagnosis. I’m exploding the truth.

As for prophetic telling? As for the future of poor White pawns when we’re a minority in America? It’s foretold in Philly if you can read the bumps on the heads of backsliding and dazed Catholics. It’s a trade-secret of serene immigrants to hire a Christianized naif to handle the irate Blacks who enter the door. Preferable, a poor White girl from the depleted Irish Catholic neighborhoods who’s a single mom and reconciled to low-grade abuse. When you see a NE Asian-owned cleaners, with a monkish Asian doing the tailoring and banking, and a rag-faced goy answering complaints about chemical stains and lost pants, you’ve found foreign newbies who’ve aced the New America. They’ve solved the mean streets. It’s up to the native-born White, the face of punch-drunk sympathy, to deliver the law to homeless dregs, “I told you yesterday that you can’t use the toilet. It’s still for employees only. I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

That’s today’s Philadelphia in the public and semi-public commons where Whites are irrelevant. Reduced to fear and piety or jailhouse bravado. It’s better if you have can afford valet parking. In any case, last night I went back to 1600 and saw a Shakespeare play. I’ve ushered at the theater about 25 times, and that’s my most venal trade-secret as a cheap-ass writer who’s often too lazy to read. It’s said that Shakespeare was a closet-Catholic. Judging by the bewitching hoo-doo in Macbeth, he was also a closet Pagan. It’s a weakness in Christian lore that Mary Magdalene isn’t too appealing as sin’s female agent. But Lady Macbeth has dark feminine wiles that are almost equal to Cleopatra, who Shakespeare renders most lustily. For a while, in the black heart of the play, Shakespeare doesn’t give a shit about the need to present the noble, regal and queenly female ideal. He flies the devil’s kite. He creates stormy fun. But in the end, proper moral order is restored with the thrust of an avenging sword. The good guys win, and social harmony returns to The Realm.

Shakespeare has given me a considerable trade-secret: be irresistibly nasty and politically obscene in my script until the very last moment. Then, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, produce a warm ’n fuzzy ending. In shoe-shine terms, produce a nicely polished finish and don’t worry about the thin gloss. In 101 textbook terms, produce a plot resolution wherein public order and Divine Order are restored as One. Be wholesome as an afterthought. Take it to the bank.

Thanks Bill. You’re the greatest! But I’m a follower in hard times. I’ve got my own trade-secret to sculptify as a writer. I’ve got my own deep personal resolution to chisel into a plot resolution upon the public stage. Too bad that my ends are as time-specific to the Leaden Age of Western Liberal Plutocracy as Shakespeare’s ends were time-specific the Golden Age of Elizabethan Theater. I’m living at the bottom, maybe beneath the bottom, of a World Historical Cycle if not the Kali Yuga. The point? Regardless of my powers as a cheat, I just can’t pretend to think that the Public Order, the Moral Order, the Natural Order and the Divine Order can be reconciled as One in Philly. Neither can a redeeming spin be synched to the roundly vacant USA and the flickering Globalist Hairball. So much for climactic catharsis with a familial denouement. Shakespeare’s advantage was that he had a knowing race of Englishmen to honor as a loyal and loving prick. He lived at the golden dawn of the British Empire wherein even a vicious pirate like Sir Francis Drake could sincerely drop to his knees and praise The Island Throne. The crowning Spirit of England with its guarded line of aristo-buccaneers. Maybe Sir Richard Burton, as epic writers go, was the last of the breed. Dr. Albert Schweitzer called him “a moral idiot.” But Burton was a heroic navigator of Olympian stature nevertheless. In body and spirit, he was a jealous pedigree with a blinding light.

Life is funny at bottom. It’s amusing to belong to the nadir of Western Man. I’m perfectly cozy here and now. I merge effortlessly, as a natural, with Filthadelphia and its soiled joys and catastrophes. The problem? The trade-secret that’s caught in my throat? The truth that inflames my neck? As a writer and voice, I segregate! I segregate my own frail creative germ from the filthy pedestrian soul-bath regardless of lost profit. I just don’t give a shit about the poor and wailing demos that I know too well. To make matters worse, I don’t give a shit about my financial betters who control the purse-strings, the puppet-strings and the heart-strings of public theater. Neither do I favor their actors in reserve, primed like bombs for the 6 o’clock news: anti-White revolutionaries, volatile immigrants and nihilistic rioters with red-hair, freckles, and dog breath. All that cheap shoe-shine, all that cheap moral or editorial gloss, all that crap lathered over power politics. Really, racial politics.

From the bottom of the Kali Yuga, the grease-pit of the Aryan roller-coaster, my job is to error on the side the Higher Orders. To come clean, as a privileged species of dirty White voyeur who has glimpsed the summit. Revealed in it’s clear majesty by Shakespeare at the top of the ride. Concealed in its gloom by degenerate carriers at bottom. Céline, a man amongst lethal cry-babies and cussed goyim, took it upon himself to grasp the low light. I know some, not all, of his trade secrets. First Céline recognized the luminous germ in the rhapsodic tripe of belly-aching Celt rustics in Paris. Then he recognized the lyrical germ in himself. That was a fateful day. A heroic prick, Céline made his noted lingo, his ripped ditties of genius, untranslatable even into languages like German and Italian that have a kinship with French. It was Céline’s take on low-down fun. It was also Céline’s take on the sport of kings.

A backstreet metaphysician, Céline took the Left Hand Path to the Olympian Heights of Immortal Fame. To cover his tracks in plain sight, he sputtered an asinine ferment of giddy yet scorched-earth prose. There’s do-or-die conviction in his funny steps. The man put himself to the test! And whatever Céline’s ultimate trade-secret, it can’t be severed from his core muse to leave French literature, maybe Western literature, in a vacuum after his death. He refused to be followed.

This explains, at bottom, his anti-Semitic rants. Céline’s paranoia in the face of shysters who’d make a global prole, a pan-humanist, an embalmed ambassador for Colored Revolutions in Africa and Slavonia out of his corpus. Céline: a self-immolating genius. Too hot to touch and leaving friends and foes majestically incensed. Maybe he over-reacted. But maybe he didn’t.

sabato 27 agosto 2016

Louis-Ferdinand Destouches (called Céline) was born in Courbevoie, outside Paris, in 1894 of Norman and
Breton parents. He joined the French Army in 1912 and in October 1914,

at the beginning
of the First World War, he was wounded in the arm and transferred to the French
passport office in London. He worked briefly for the Congolese Sangha Oubangui
company in the Cameroons between 1916 and 1917. After the war, he pursued
medical studies at Rennes and completed his doctorate in 1924 with a
dissertation on the Viennese physician Ignaz Semmelweis. In 1925 Céline began working for the League of Nations and travelled
extensively until 1928, when he worked as a medical practitioner, first in a
private clinic and then, from 1931, in a public dispensary.

His first literary endeavour Voyage
au bout de la nuit (1932) was met with considerable success and his second Mort
à crédit
(1936) was equally remarkable for its innovative literary style. In 1937 and
1938 he wrote two pamphlets Bagatelles pour un massacre and Lécole des cadavres, which focussed on
the Jewish contribution to Europe's contemporary calamities. They were
followed, during the Occupation, by Les beaux draps (1941), which
continued his indictment of the Jews and sought to present a utopian socialist
solution for the corrupt French nation. Although e seemed at times to favour
the German occupation, Céline was clearly not a National
Socialist and scorned the Aryan theories of the Germans. In fact, as the
following extracts will show, he was much more of a Communist and, instead of
glorifying the Aryans, he is filled with contempt for the impotence of the
ethnic French against what he presents as the invincible financial strategies
of the Jews and Freemasons. It is because of this utterly negative aspect of
his anti-Semitism – apart from the scurrilous and hysterical nature of his
literary expression - that Céline was never accepted by the
Germans as a true comrade. Both Voyage and Mort were banned by
the Reich in 1938 and Dr.
Bernhard Payr, a close colleague of Alfred Rosenberg, head of the
Shriftumspflege Amt (publishing surveillance office) wrote in a report in
January 1942 that Céline “put into question and dragged in the mud just about
all the positive values produced by human existence”.[1]

However, fearing the Allied reaction
to the apparently anti-Semitic nature of the pamphlets written between 1937 and
1941, Céline decided to flee France in 1944. He moved to Germany in June
1944 and later in March 1945 sought refuge in Denmark, where he stayed until
1951. During his exile he was convicted, in absentia, by the French
government of collaboration, although he was granted amnesty in 1950. On his
return to France he wrote three books about his exile, D'un château à l'autre (1957), Nord (1960)
and Rigadon (1961). He spent his last days as a doctor for the poor and
died in July 1961.

*

In this edition I present four
extracts from the last of his so-called anti-Semitic pamphlets in order to make
clear Céline's socialist concerns as well as the true nature of his
“anti-Semitism”, which, in spite of its ranting tone, seems to be a subtle
glorification of the secret financial Jewish rule and a scornful satire on the
stupidity and powerlessness of the French, and of Europeans in general, against
this rule. Furthermore, Céline cunningly makes his
anti-Semitism the bearer of a severe, quasi-Nietzschean, anti-Catholicism as
well, under the pretext that the Christian apostles were all Jews. In fact,
according to Céline, the anti-Semitism of the French racialists Arthur, Comte de
Gobineau and Édouard Drumont, was also risible since it was bound to the
traditional Catholic hostility to the Jews.[2]

The opening section of the pamphlet,
before the first extract, is, in the main, a commentary on the psychological
weakness of the French soldiery, especially during the first World War - in
which Céline did military service for a short time.

The first extract presented here
deals with the formation of the French elite
out of country bumpkins by wily urban Jews, the second and third with
the apathy and inertia of the working classes that do not have the financial
resources to mount a revolution against the bourgeois whom they envy, while the
Jews themselves have the big banks to support world-transforming revolutions
like the Russian. The last section reinforces the selfishness of both the
working classes and the bourgeois and their easy deception by the Jew, who “is
always in agreement with you, on one condition: That it's always he who is in
charge.”[3]

The sections that follow the fourth
extract discuss the deleterious effect of factory work, the need for a
quasi-Nietzschean revival of “gaiety” in French social life, and a ethnically
homogeneous communist school system which would exclude Jews and foster the
native creativity of its pupils. The exclusion of the Jews that he insists on
may be in accord with his advocacy of a “super-Communist”[4]
egalitarianism that would liberate the common man from the bonds of Jewish
finance. On the other hand, when he expresses his support for the proletariat
doomed to drudgery and “the crematory of life”,[5]
one wonders whether Céline was perhaps aware of the
deadly measures that had been initiated against the Jews in the Reich from
early 1941 and - given his constant railing against both the Jews and the
Aryans - whether his sympathies were really with the latter or with the
former..

I

Who was the
greatest politician that France has ever known since Louis XIV? ...Raymond
Poincaré![6] He knew our
rights. He pleaded the cause of France one after the other every week. With him
it was never too late. He never lost our cause, he always won.

If he were alive
it would not have happened like this.

How ugly the hypocrites
are! Why do they say that the French did not want the war? They really and
truly wanted it. They were all behind Daladier[7]
at the moment of the Declaration, as well as hehind Clemenceau,[8]
and then later behind Mandel[9]
and later still behind Reynaud[10]
and then behind God knows who! … Cocorico! 800,000 bureaucrats! And all the
writers with them! and all the journalists! There's the simple truth.

They did not
want the war? It was quite simple, quite easy, they only had to write a single
letter, each one to his member of parliament, that they did not want this war,
that they did not want it at any price except a “casus belli” on the part of
Germany.

It would never
have been declared.

It would have
cost each one of them one franc. It was really a good expenditure and good
democracy. I think that they sensed this war coming, that they were fully
warned a hundred times, thousand times more than in '14! in full knowledge of
its cause! At the present moment one would be comfortable in the good life,
happy and all. So the fuck-up was done, consciously, deliberately by a gang of
dickheads.

One would not
have had any prisoners. We would be behind our fine army, still dreaded,
formidable, behind our intact Maginot,[11]
one would be waiting to make arbitrations, we would be the stars of Europe,
adulated, respected, petted, everything.

All Frenchmen
are Gaulists (sic) with the rare exception of some clowns. De Gaulle!
they swoon Six months ago they suffered breakdowns when people spoke to them of
the English. They all wanted to drive them into the sea. They were equally for
Ferdonnet.[12] At present
they are all for Albion, by Albion, under Albion …

What does one
risk? Basically they are only a group of monkeys, indecisive magpies, doddering
claimants, They don't know any more what they want except to complain. Shout,
and that's enough. It will finally fall
from the heavens. Make claims! God! It's the law! The biggest cop? in the
world! The great Hebrew Jeremiad that they have adopted! You do not want any
more of the English! Complain! …

You do not want
any more landlords! Complain!

You want to
remake Poland? Complain!

Palestine?
Kamchatka? The Bois de Boulogne and Persia?

Complain louder
and louder!

You want their
potatoes? Those of the moon, and patchouli? from the delivery man? Lobster?
Don't break your head … complain!

To finish the
revolution it would be necessary to offer them the prayer-wheel or bell, and
see that everything is written down on it clearly in black and white, the
grievances, the hopes, the demands … like at the Conference of the Lama … they
would turn it while walking, marching in procession so that it drops … Each one
with his little wheel of eternal claim … that would make a frightful din, one
can only think of them …

That would
itself be decisive ...People would be appeased in a way.. One could no longer
mention a word.

The Rroooouuuu …
would drown everything.

It's the
presence of the Germans that is insupportable. They are quite polite, quite
reasonable. They act like boy-scouts. However, one can't stand them … Why? I
ask you. They haven't humiliated anybody … They repulsed the French army which
only wanted to scram. Ah! If it were a Jewish army, how one would adulate it!

Imagine a
Yiddish army which comes, say, from a little farther off … There would be
nothing too splendid for it! How many never-ending ecstasies! That's what the
French lack, the Jew's rod, they don't want to have any more rods. They want to
be beaten to death by it, contented, I'll soon tell you how. He is cursed,
dedicated. All the rest is only words.

The bourgeois
who sees in De Gaulle the “Royal Dutch”,[13]
its fine “Suez canals”. He says to himself here's a man placed at the fountain
of life! He's the general of Fortune. He will set everything back as before for
us. He will get everything back in order! His coupons will be issued again! One
will have again full petrol, one will go out on Sundays, one will go to the
feasts again, one will laugh silly in the groves again in the gentleness of the
Angevin air, and pride will rise again to the heavens, the fine smell of all
the best nourished bowels in the world, knights of the Legion of Honour.

Let's speak of
the famous “rapprochement” that has suddenly become kosher, a wonderful bull
for the Jews and Freemasons.

All the others
are eliminated, apart from a few individuals, poor maniacal harmless people, of
whom I am one, manipulating hobby-horses and pamphlets, reed-pipes and bells.
The serious matters are only for the Jews.

More Jews than
ever on the streets, more Jews than ever in the press, more Jews than ever at
the bar, more Jews than ever in the Sorbonne, more Jews than ever in medicine,
more Jews than ever in the theatre, the opera, in the cinema, in industry, in
the banks. Paris, France delivered more than ever to the Masons and Jews more
insolent than ever. More Lodges than ever behind the scenes, and more active
than ever. All the more determined than ever to never cede an inch of its
properties, its white slave traffic privileges, in war as in peace, upto the
last breath of the last native soul. And the French are quite happy, entirely
in accord, enthusiastic.

Such stupidity
is beyond man. Such a fantastic stupor betrays a death instinct, a
charnel-house ponderousness, a debilitating perversity that nothing can explain
except that the time has come, that the Devil informs us that Destiny is being
completed.

How is opinion
fabricated? It's quite simple, it's made in Paris. How is a Parisian formed?
It's very simple, he comes from the country. He arrives on a fine morning, with
a small suitcase, on an apple cart. Here the man is on the pavement. The Jew is
there waiting for him, with his press, his radio. He is going to make Bidasse[15]
a Parisian, the dumbfounded soldier is quite mature. First of all the ingenious
slogans! A bovine arsehole from the village, here's the soldier promoted to
somebody on the asphalt of the City of Lights, become the object of an
affection, a passionate solicitude every minute. He has a “taste” that is
decreed to him, a flair, a delicacy!

An innate
personal genius! Is he not the jewel of the planet! let him be confirmed,
declared, through extra-special editions, with great titles, fireworks, bright
neon! Let him be overwhelmed by it all round, capricious, swirling and all. In
a week he can no longer be recognised. A giddying intelligence! The masterpiece
of 22 centuries! He is the only one and there is no other! The rest are savages
elsewhere! People who do not exist ...wretched and frightful countries,
monkeys! … “His Apple” is the talk of the town! perfect! As favourable as
Boccador![16]
Quintessential apotheosis! Average Frenchman, the darling with the rarest
gifts, the prince of strength and cunning! one does not make a better
counterfeit! It's only a matter of getting him to get drunk, of distracting
himself at the cinema, of making him go to the Folies, of depraving himself
wildly in great luxury, of damning himself in magical breasts, in the mirages of
Priapus, there he is all mellow and ready to melt, confusing the north for the
south, right for left … He has forgotten his clock-tower, his dandelion, his
one-eyed goat, he is lost. Rupture of work. A peasant abandoned by his cows.
Even poor enough to be starving he is now the most armed person in the world!
raving to the whole universe! he defies the world! America! he dashes crockery
to the zenith! he has cannons for the moon! he criss-crosses it! He is no
longer comparable to anything, he can no longer be shown off, taken out,
listened to without blushing. Here's the madman to be bound, the citizen
intoxicated with absurdities who has lost all sense of humour. He does not know
any longer what he does or does not do.
He only has vague inclinations, incipient desires, fragments now, he cannot
undertake anything any more, he does not understand anything any more. He has
lost his roots. He is the man of the media, rinsed, saturated, a boastful rag.
He goes wherever his stupidity pushes him, wherever the Jew whispers slogans to
him.

To keep France
breathing is not very difficult: have Bidasse polished up, clownish, nasty,
jeering. The pretentious French opinion is the ugly symbiosis of Bidasse and
the Yid.

Bidasse
increasingly disappointing, exhausted, shaken, equivocal.

It's been
functioning this way for a long time, that Tabarin[17]
waits for Bidasse to get to his head, to fill it with papers, to hypnotise it
to death, at his arrival from the country. Already in 1580 Tabarin was waiting
for boys on the Neuf Bridge.

Try to
understand what they want? What do they want? ...They don't know at all! The
radicals? The monarchy? The return to “the way it was”? Socialism? Fourierism?[18]
Electoral civil war? Alexandre Dumas as dictator?The Mascuraud committee?[19]
Léon Blum?[20]
Reynaud?[21] The
Jesuits? The proportional electoral system? The lotteries? The Great Moghul?
What do they want? They have no idea …They have mucked up, rotted, puked up
everything through and through, everything that they touch will be the same,
vomit, excrement, in two days.

They want to
remain old horses, unkempt, paddlers, drunkards, that's all. They don't have
any other plan. They want to make claims everywhere,totally and on everything,
and then that's more than one can bear. A country is destroyed with “rights”,
with supreme rights, with rights to nothing, with rights to everything, with
rights of the jealous, with rights of famine, of storms.

But one should
not forget the elite! It exists! Fuck! It exists! Where does it come from? It
comes from its village in the same way. It comes to consecrate itself ...to
smell the Parisian atmosphere... the sophistication, the shrewdness, the
refined understanding … the unimprovised elegance. What is consecration? It's the art of doing
things … It's not so simple as it
seems… It's an entire career, tests ...Must first go to the university, get
into the skiff of the bachelor's degree …

The voyage
begins! ...Pass the qualifying exams … pass geography … algebra ...agronomy
...inject oneself with encyclopedias …Political Science … Learn perfectly the
very Jewish and Masonic and rotten, the well-cooked, counterfeit history of
France … Come out of it with a degree … Already a cow with dim enlightenment …
a chatterbox with pros and cons Basic
boorishness … basic scepticism ...an already not very valiant heart of a
thrifty and sluttish race … is hardened further ...shrunk to a stock-exchange
form which is jingled really more than for just money … thanks to the cold,
rational and papyrus instruction … Here's the adolescent member of the elite
ready for the ten thousand profits, well protected from his youth, from the
enthusiasms of his age … having well retained papa and mama's morale … the
horror of spontaneities .. the dishonour of sacrifices …

Here's the
adolescent member of the elite ready for the ten thousand profits … little
first-class apple-cart .. a village lad snobbish in a Montaigne-like manner …
hundred times more avid than his father, who was however a famous coward who
did not let much come in his way … Here's the son sniffing the city air ...
Aiming high, worldly wise, a straw man. He is going to enter into
relationships, he is going to frequent the salons, the Lodge of the “Hairy
Bears United” (affiliate of Brith-Brith), two or three fashionable bars. It's
launched! Now there's the great can can! fashion, couture, the artists! Ah, really giddying
people! who have a heart that does not beat any more except a little for the
“Persic”[23] and two or
three beats for the orgy when it's the party at a big farmhouse that only some
foreign exchange dealers sustain! Oh, it's a sublime bungalow! one plows into
the heart of refinement! wih every intoxicating comfort, ambergris perfumes,
paid pansies, crafted bracelets! Hammams, embassies, hot water, League of
Nations furs … one sucks up formidable secrets … What luxuriousness! Our buddy
becomes quite like a pooch with all that ...He no longer knows what to do with
his job ...He no longer speaks of his sub-prefecture ...He daydreams when he
thinks of high society ...of the golden gates that open to it ...of its elusive
culture … of the way it eludes him ...that he is at the moment greater than
papa ...He only thinks now internationally ...of the “criteria of value” ...”the abjection of the profane scum” …
Think-tanks! … Barbarians who conceive things badly! small brains, vile
wretches … his now! … And the torments of Mr. Benda?[24]
But he takes part at once! never too many promises for the Jew! never too many
gentle alarms, reverences, bowing knees … Still two or three tasks at the Lodge
… some good notes of the Honourable … our lad enters the high elite … he climbs
into two or three salons … but he should not be entertained by them!
Embarrassed that he forgets his “can, can” at the right moment! … Catastrophe!
...straightens out the geniuses he frequents! … the princesses of distinction
Sarah Barbizol-Cudégonde née SchwobArzincourt and the dazzling Durand-Kahn, who
is the present Montaigne at the Sorbonne … who is so sceptical that he does not
sleep there any longer ...who is such a casuistic treasure that he produces
shit while eating bread! … Let everybody be dazzled by it … What happens to his
memorable theses when it emerges from his backside … That's how the elite works! … The little
buddy should not fall asleep, he would be torn to pieces by the wolf-pack …
Either one frequents or one does not frequent! Ah, but wait ..It's the “can,
can” or death! Can, can! in half-disgusted contempt with a fraction of a blasé smile for anybody that is not Jewish shit … Even that is full of
nuances ...shouldn't abuse one's lips … One is at the court of Mammon, at the
court of the great golden Shit! Importunate people are discouraged … The
courtier plays on one's palate. Certainly! not more than is necessary … with
good knowledge! … That is the function, the privilege, the proud defence of the
Bar-stool. He would be eminent in finances, of the very first order in
phosphates, amazing at the breeding of pigs, of high quality in beetroots, he
would be Michelangelo in shorts, it wouldn't be worth much to him if he does
not know how to do the “can, can”. Oh the merciless exclusivity, the ferocious
ordeal!

And is that how
one does the “can,can”? It's done by picking on the lads with regard to nothing
and everything. It's a way of shitting through the mouth about no matter what
is presented … can! can!. The moment it is not a crazy Yid, precious Semitic
shit. But pay attention to the brass! the superlatives! all the pomp! if it's a
drama of intentions … of the spicy end of the Yiddish cabaret … negroid rebel
against the Aryan, in the unequivocal sense ...of the newspaper which does not
mean anything but which is full of sighs that are called 'long' … and of photos
of true friends ...We understand! … Bravo, good Provençal Jew! all round with the accent! eighteen times! twenty five
times French! and what talent! Two hundred and fifty times more than you!
...the competitor for the Goncourt who arrives sharply! but you see! An assured
reform council! naturally! And the ballet at the Opera? … And the last nice
vaseline tone! Ah, it's the novel of the exiled man! ... It's the ministerial
gossip! … It's Vichy! … Oh! but the basses ...Take care! … sense the trap! Be
vigilant! Sense it from afar! Telephone Rue Cadet … the new Mason, please, at
the other side of the Petit Palais .., Get the information and go! It's
mockery, scepticism, the superior contempt of Aretin[25]
… that crushes for you with a single word everytning that does not have a
Yiddish odour, a simmering manure of the Secret…

Sure? Then go to
it directly! Raise your voice! … Make a declaration cheerfully! … Raise! Raise!
… can can, big-mouths! You're in good form! on the royal road! In one stroke
you're going to cross three stages, three steps of the temple! the twelve
coffins of your Lodge! Your future is almost Jewish! A single voice is
sufficient for that! at the optimal moment! … You're being spied on … you're
being watched … repeat the exercice
hundred times, what am I saying, hundred times? thousand times, hundred
thousand times! and talk again! talk! That's all that counts in your life!
You're not of the goyim race for nothing … that would be unfortunate at your age!
Go! Blasé … alerted ...wrinkle your nose just a little … like that … the
nostrils … cultured .. one who is aware of the end of things ...sceptical
...irritated … shake your head if necessary … be very disdainful ...scorn!
...the slimy bad-mouth … the short-winded very French crook … your double...
Ah! the pompousness, where does he come from? He was just born here? He is not
married to Rachel? He is not a First Degree Mason somewhere?Ah! the crime! then
sorry! strangle this for me! A cord! Kill this pig for me! Everything that he
may attempt is shit! and not just! It's not even worth looking at! It's all
done! It's early bird-shit! To the kill, my sly friends! Scramble for the
spoils! Don't worry! The widow will arm our avenging arms! Shout in horror! And
all together! Destroy this mob for me! let nothing stop you! Turn it into
slime! fresh cow-dung! Destroy your brother? That's your duty as a Frenchman or
you will never understand anything! That's true patriotism and the liberation
of humanity! Two birds with one stone! Ten birds with one stone! the cart! may
he never emerge from it! Ah! above all no contempt! Keep your eyes peeled! A
good career hangs on a thread! Do not write that it's worth it if it's not an
occultist! …You would be a stinker for ever! … Ostrracised to death! Without
the possibility of a pardon! That's much more serious than incest! “Have found
a very nice native!” I don't say anything better of anybody but a Jew! It's
really unthinkable! … It's a crime that is unimaginable! … It's something
beyond the French nature … They could never decide to do that. They would
collapse there on the spot ...of horror, forgetfulness of denigration … not
ruin your racial brother? But that is unheard of! That would really be the end
of France! .. Oh! Watch out for the reprimand! Oh! let it be correct and
prompt! Indubitable, quite repulsive! Ah! then read my critiques again! …
You're going to enjoy yourselves this time, to cite only my little case … can
can! ...and can can! Enraged! … That's good work together! … truly exact
lessons for everybody! What one should say .. and not say ...appreciate … bite
...sully ...smear ...One just has to assume the tone and then follow ...then
you'll sail on velvet, the cushy job will be filling, distended, bursting with
success! That will not prevent you from being a zero, but you will have the
authority and nobody will overtake you any longer. You will enter the council
of the Order. Take me on my word, my little friend. It's you who will judge all
the others, once and for all, and big shot, you will be on the side of the
victor, in politics, the arts, or finance, an eminent voice, a truly feared can
can. You'll call the shots at the
“Tattersall”[26] as well as
at the “Croissant”.

“What do I
know?” I know that it's “judaise or die!” … instinctively then and intractably!
as soon as you sniff something French! You get my point? That's wonderful!

The super-select places are yours, the elite posts, the supersecret telephones,
the entrenched cushy jobs, the cakes, the real golden fleece, no matter that
you come from your Brouzarches,[27]
from your Conches-sur-Eure,[28]
the treasures of your Creuses,[29]
still full of the prison straw-bed and fouasse,[30]
your neck still elastic, your brow ready for centuries of subjugation, that
doesn't matter, you will be recognised as a master, a tough and transcendent
head of the elite, the way you do 'can can'! Let everything Aryan infuriate
you, let everything that is not Jewish make you blush with shame and horror,
let it be instantaneous in you, let it not be necessary that you should be
implored, never let anyone discover that you have had anything but burps when
you sniff anything that is not Jewish. Difficulty stimulates you, even in
folklore, you will immediately find everything full of Yids.

I'll be damned
if you are not a poet with faculties like that! What a future, my pretty boy!
What an amazing can! can! Write to the N.R.F.![31]
A dim seriousness emerges, a dull mucus is exuded, and extends delicately over
two hundred pages. The divine effort is accomplished! Another tremendous
writer! …

The heartbeat
that is quite slowed down, stops. It's nothing more than a little leather
jacket with its little purse for one's cards. Like that you'll have no more
annoyances. You'll have no more annoyances. You'll only have to register new
triumphs, keep silent, from one victory to the other, marry a suitable heiress,
the one with the best connections, be greeted at the restaurant.

Sail, sail,
little fellow! You'll have all the winds behind you! Spread your sails, contented
and arrogant, on the seas! Without getting excited of course, that would damage
your can, can ...You would then no longer have a British air, … Phlegmatism!
The phlegmatism of the powerful! … Fully calm as you should be, as it is
fitting for you to ravish … nonchalantly on the gangway … let them come …

You'll calmly
remarry ...you'll calmly copulate ...you'll go kindly to the Sphinx, you'll have calm little children without any
mishaps … without avatars ...all that always thanks to the can-can … in the
Jewish furrow …

You'll be a part
of the true elite, pampered, force-fed, nourished, everything ...That's the
main thing as soon as one dreams, as one reflects a little can-can! …

Life is short,
exhausting, ferocious, why bother doing anything beyond can.can! What does that
resemble, I ask you! So much the worse for the ignorant, that's all! Break
one's arse for peanuts? for fantastic redemptions? crusades standing up? when
it's so simple to defend oneself, to reach a safe haven through talk, ravishing,
famous …

Of course, you
should be very young shit, the family should be involved in it, otherwise it
goes less well, it's a question of early years, with a more than fortunate
lineage, having a lucky star is to be well born, of understanding parents. That
causes the vermin to be sown, that produces a warm culture, in the shade, it
proliferates, it's contented, more fucking contented than the eagle that passes
above in the storms.

What a
tremendous future for the vermin! reasonable! certain! There are hardly any
eagles left!

By fucking
Hiram![32]
the earth is turning! It contains more evil than good! The die has been cast!

….........................

II

The nations are
not going to die because the statesmen are zeros, their governments too greedy,
too drunkard or too pedophile - all this is unimportant - their ministers too
pretentious, their ambassadors too talkative, more than they are themselves,
these capricious nations have become too arrogant, oversaturated with wealth,
crushed by their industries, too luxurious or too agricultural, too simple or
too complicated. All that is not serious, transient trifles, mere news
round-ups of history. Are the essential raw materials lacking in industry! Are
the factories slowed down? … These now are serious matters but which can still
be taken care of. Look at Germany.

And military
disasters? Occupations by the enemy? what do you say about them, fearless one?
No importance. A prolific, ardent nation raises itself admirably from the
greatest military shambles. The cruellest occupations, but only on one
condition, this very essential, mystical condition, that of being faithful
through victories and reversals to the same groups, to the same ethnic group,
to the same blood, to the same, unbastardised racial origins, those which made
it triumph sovereign during the testing times and those of conquest, of having,
in spite of everything, preserved itself from the fornications of lower races,
above all from the Jewish, Berber, Afro-Levantine pollution of the born
corrupters of Europe.

Has it succumbed
to magic potions thrown to the riffraff everywhere? From this moment on no more
salvation, every Jewish contaminated country degenerates, languishes and
collapses, war does not kill it, it finishes it off.

The essential
has already happened, the fort that one considered from afar, through an
illusion, a trick, to be an impenetrable citadel was only fortified with
cardboard, encloses a populace of madmen, a yelling crowd of maniacs, raving
madmen in shackles, all soft in the head, lost in talk and wine, bitter after
their ruin, all dedicated to death, to disembowelment.

The lightning
has struck this horror, every debacle is a final blow.

But here are 37
million beings, idiots who are there having fun, the torment having passed,
odd, envious, sly, not having any idea in common except some dismal aversion
for each other, shallow, seedy and faded anarchist gatecrashers, each for
himself, one against all, and if it were possible all against one.
Decomposition of the corpse. What can one do with this mob? this immense pile
of rags? Deport all of it to the Urals? Put all those booted authors, stinking
people in trailer vans, make them throw up their stupidity over there in
prostitution, have them repelled somehow, in a kindly arrangement, to thousands
of miles from their home?

That could
perhaps happen ...It's perhaps not so impossible … Perhaps sooner than one
thinks ...The bourgeois does not give a fuck, what he wants is to keep his
loot, his “Royal Dutch”, his privileges, his situation and his Lodge where he
makes good contacts, those that connect you to the Ministry. Definitely he is Jewish because it is the Jew
who holds the gold, has the finest Calf in his Temple. These are things that
are not even discussed! … which are taken for granted once and for all! … and
can! can! … the only real regret of the bourgeois is not having been born a
Jew, a full Jew, from the beginning, papa and mama. The true nobility of our
epoch. He imitates him in everything and for everything, same opinions, same
enthusiams, same stars, same repulsions, same tarts, same sables, He follows the Yid train as he can. Ben
Pourceaugnac.[33]

Only the Jew has
many strings, he is Trotsky and then Rothschild, the two at the same time ...He
makes it fit every occasion. That's what's going to fuck the bourgeois.

Samuel Bernard
and then Samson! At first “can! can!” and then a big “Ugh!” Ah! Ah1 There's the
riddle!

The worker
doesn't give a fuck about being a pure Aryan! mixed-race or brown! being
descended from Goths or Arthur! as long as his stomach does not growl! And
precisely that is what is happening … He has more important things to do! What
good can it do to him to be of pure blood or mixed! Why not the Marquis of
Priola?[34]
the Duchess of Gonesses? All that is fairy-tales of the Krauts, tricks to annoy
the Jews, conduct pogroms against them, shake out their cash. These are the
vengeances of Hitler who has not been able to rule the fucked-up world. There
are very nice little Jews and Frenchmen who are perfect cows, disgusting types.
It's not at all a question of race. It's a question of class. Everybody knows
that ...The Jew is the friend of the worker, a democrat, a friend of progress,
champion of public education, of women's suffrage. That's what matters!

He is the same
as a Cagoulard,[35] a friend
of freedom! The Jew's one who is persecuted, a man who suffers for his
religion! A victim of dictatorships! The Jews responsible for the war? Now
there's another mess! An invention of capitalism to exonerate the truly guilty,
the men of the fifth column. The truly guilty ones are Hitler and then Wendel,[36]
perhaps Dreyfus (and even in his case one is not sure), all three totally in
agreement (the great are not for eating), with Churchill and Franco to strangle
the proletariat, take back from it its conquests of '36, its dignity at the
weekends, its Simca[37]
and its rosewood.

For it is a
world war against the proletarian, that's why he bursts, why he explodes. His
view cannot be changed with songs and smiles. The question of today and of the future.
He has truth in his marrow, he will not change any more. All the rest is
conspiracy, anarchy of deceivers, guys paid for by the pricks and consequently
by the rich to frustrate, to confuse the issue, to put the damned of the earth
to sleep.

Oh! la! la! how
delicate, how arduous, painful to deal with such subjects! Here for example is
a person … He perhaps has syphilis, you can tell yourself: Oh! that's alright! ...it's a not very
convenient disease … I'm going to cure his little spots with an anodyne
ointment … some little yellow or red
pills … he will be very happy … I'll talk to him of the important thing … that
will get me a satisified patient who will talk well of me everywhere … I won't
do it with injections .. Surely he will cause me distresses ...his teeth will
come unloose.. he will throw up on the stairs ...he will perhaps fall in a
faint … do you see that thing in my armchair? that I am obliged to hide him ..
with a third … fourth ampule? to imprison him a little in the armchair … that he
makes me end up like a Bougnat[38]
… in life one never knows .. malevolence is everywhere … One is thrown into a
panic and then it's the horror … the drama begins, the Grand Guignol .. One
should not look too deeply into things … not too curiously! It's a good rule:
'Curiosity kills the cat”, as De Gaulle would say .. But let's return to our
patient ….If we made a piercing to look a bit into his brain … If his
cerebrospinal fluid is not disturbed ...what his brain tells us … Oh! la! la!
...watch out! … Suddenly you are ready for Hell! … You don't know where to go!
In twenty years … thirty years .. more! This gentleman will return to see you …
to haunt your nights with atrocious dreams
… have I killed him, or haven't I? … he would have cursed you so much …
He will be your vampire in the refuge that you have just reached, you who are
scruples personified … for having disturbed a little like that his spinal fluid
… Ah! so don't move anything at all! Even for the love of God! For the devotion
to the crippled! you'll be screwed to death!

Be calm! Treat a
person benignly ...little pills that offend nobody … Leave the syphilis where
it is. It asks nothing of you. It feels well in the depths. Cradle it with your
good words. It's not medicine that is demanded of you, it's magic. Never attack
the essential and people will be very grateful to you, moved, very touched
forever, for that. Happiness consists in not speaking of anything, to let the
suppuration burst, at the hour and on the day destined, in not taking care of the
the new one.. Paying court to Treponema[39]
with small white pills and big lies.

I know a
distinguished patient, she tells me always when I meet her .. that I preach to
her somewhat ..

“Oh! Doctor! no!
.. it's not necessary … I only had the small beginnings of … You know it well!
I'm not going to take care of myself for a small start of that … You have
alerted me so well in time! … Oh! Doctor, be reasonable!”

And it's not
money that is the motivation. I have never taken it from anybody. No! it's
quite simply the fact that it bothers her to go into details. She does not wish
to admit that which is painful. That's how it is and that's all. Nobody wants
the truth.

In another way
note that, in the speeches, in the newspapers, which speak of raising France
again, they never attack the subject, they scratch their heads, they wriggle
all round, they lay their hand on their heart, they speak in a trembling voice,
and then two or three rants, and then they've had it and that's all. Those who
really speak badly of the Jews, the terrible adversaries of Israel, they do not
speak of the question of classes/races, or they deny it quite simply, they
evade, they have other preferences, they baulk, they beat about the bush … They
do not make an incision, they praise pills, ointments with melolin dressings …
which are perfect for hiding the evidence.

Those who write
in the Communist genre gas a lot with the Yids, they are firmly in their grip,
they are their great adjudicators.

All that is very
gentle, very kind, skimming, grazing on the surface, easy, chattering,
plastering, unguents, calming ointment, tiger balm, for the big days when one
goes up to the Bastille! … Lots of luck! and then that's enough and that's all.
Let them say Boo! Boo! to ghosts and then return home very proudly … Long life
to the syphilis! The earth is not going to quake for such a small thing!
Absolutely useless diversions that keep the people fully divided, incapable of
short-circuits … What guarantees against lightning, the blessing of shops.

Jewish and Masonic
France, once and for all. This is what should be put into the poor-box, dear
diplomats! The teams are infinite … hardly is one exhausted … than the other is
drawn up … more and more “rapprochements”, forcibly …

It's the hydra
with a hundred and twenty thousand heads!

Siegfried will
not return!

In the past the
people had the perspective of Heaven to give them patience. That really
facilitated things. They invested in prayers. The entire world was based on the
resignation of the poor “dixit Lammenais”[40]
Now the poor man is no longer resigned. The Christian religion is dead, along
with hope and faith. “Everything in this world and immediately!” Whether there
be Heaven or not! … like the bourgeois, like the Jew.

Go ahead and
govern a bit in such conditions! … Ah! It's infernal A horror! I must really
admit.

Men seem to
experience a great fright, absolutely intolerable to find themselves one fine
morning quite alone, absolutely alone, before the void.

The most
audacious, the most fearless hold on, in spite of everything, to some welcome,
classical expreienced worn-out thread that reassures them and connects them to
reasonable, accepted things, to the crowd of respecable people. One might say
that they are seized by the cold. Thus Drumont[41]
and Gobineau[42] hang on
wildly to the Mother Church, their most sacred Christianity.

They brandish
the cross before the Jew, the authorised attendant of Hell, exorcise him with
the cross. What they reproach above and before all in the Yid is the fact of
being the murderer of Jesus, the one who sullied the host, the corrupter of the
rosary … Let these grievances be vented a little! The cross as an antidote?
what a farce!

How badly
thought out all that is, lopsided and false, bumbling, whining, timid. The
Aryan really succumbs through gullibility. He has caught hold of the religion,
the legend woven by the Jews expressly for his fall, his emasculation, his
servitude.

Propagated to
the virile races, to the detested Aryan races, the religion of “Peter and Paul”
did its work admirably, it lapsed into liars, into sub-humans from birth, the
submissive people, the hordes inebriated with Christian literature launched
wildly towards the conquest of the Holy Shroud, the magic hosts, abandoning
forever their exalted gods, their religons, their gods of the blood, their gods
of the race.

That's not all.
Crime of crimes, the Catholic religion was, throughout our history, the great
procurer, the great mixer of the noble races, the great procurer for the rotten
(with all the holy sacraments), the furious contaminator.

The Catholic
religion founded by twelve Jews will have proudly played its entire role when
we will have disappeared under the waves of the enormous rabble, of the
gigantic Afro-Asiatic whorehouse that is being prepared on the horizon.

Thus the sad
truth that the Aryan has always been able to love, worship only the god of
others, and never had their own religion, any white religion.

What he
worships, his heart, his faith were provided to him fully by his worst enemies.

It's quite
normal that he breaks under it, the opposite would be a miracle.

I had conceived
a very pleasant, interesting plan, I wanted to reunite the articles of the
masters of the pen, of the eminent, prominent, moving members of the elite in
the course of the panic of history, of the fatal months between '39 and '40 ..
I would have called that Lost Pages .. I didn't yet know very well … the
Anthology of Jean Jizz … Bravery in prose … Bravery in paper ...certainly I
would have found ...with a little preface: “Everything that is loyal is great
...One should violate the modesty of our heroes of thought … etc. …etc. “

They will
certainly “make a rapprochement” to those valiant troubadours one day or the
other .. They don't know yet with whom ...That's why they still scratch their
heads … They are strange, you see ….Ah! Splendid shitty notaries! Family
counsellors ...There are still some Aryans to be sold! Go, don't worry! … there
always will be! … in a Crusade, or in another!

They will of
course want something greater! … but that will always make a little money …
Your Study is not yet dead! … It will be necessary to revise the formulae a
little … but I'm quite sure of you ….It's a coup of the “hand on heart” … will
it be to the left? will it be to the right? ...Ah! we don't know! … It's
delicate … Mustn't fuck up all the study of the world with a single thoughtless
movement … The client should return by himself ...that he may suddenly feel
comfortable again ......with someone whom he can chat with ...A book is an
honest affair, it's a value, it's everythng! It's a piece of yourselves! It has
your tastes and colours! but one makes up for one in another!

That which is
censured today will be wonderful tomorrow! .. day after tomorrow consigned to
prison! …. it's the new joy! the great Trafalgar of luck! today it's a proven
shit … next spring moist with myrtles! Apotheosis of hawthorn! … Ah! comrades,
don't languish! you've really made me crap, I owe you my little puny sigh,
lasting only a little while, in a weak tone, fragile in malice, not to be
dismissed by you at all!

Fuck! on the
contrary, much amused! Everything rejoices in your return! the praise is
heaped, the doublets of gold, fantastic stately trumpet-sounds, well-dressed
choirs with virgin voices, of English histories or of America!

One says heaps
of things, arranging the world is easily
done. The social question remains, the Jews didn't invent everything, that
would be too good, the inequality of the classes, the privileges of the rich,
the injustice in everything and for everybody! The Jews would not have had the
opportunity to foment revolutions if there were not reasons for them. They did
not create them from scratch, it's true that they manage around them, they
defend themselves with blows of Humanitarianism, they have made it their great
machine, of so-called “rights”, it's the most formidable in the world, and is
entirely in their hands, they are astute, that's all.

They have the
gift of the gab, the platform, all the Lodges that follow them close behind.

He's somebody,
no illusions. It will not be sorted out with smiles, with emotion, or with
Papal bulls. One must regulate the big question, the question of dollars.

And I fear him
once and for all. Good accounts make good friends, and not just a little bit,
fully.

The world is
materialist, including the smallest nation. It no longer believes in anything
but that which is tangible. That's how public education is, the disappearance
of legends. They no longer wish to set out on their voyage before their
accounts have been settled. A civilised society asks only to return to nothing,
to go bust, to become savages again, it's a constant effort, an indefinite
recovery. It's an effort and it is fatiguing. Ours no longer wishes to give a
fuck about anything, it does not want to become fatigued at all. It
increasingly rejects them. It collapses all round.

It's the base
that is worm-eaten, having been built on hope, they do not want any more hope
at all, that's too much like wisps of air, they want “comfort and immediately”.

They are no
longer “legendary” men, they are no longer men of imagination, they're
mechanical men. Pascal was astonished too by the infinite space of the heavens,
he preferred the wheelbarrow. That does not make mechanics good, it makes it
prosaic and breakable. As such they will never set out again, they will
sabotage machines, they will increasingly go on foot, they will become
increasingly more unhappy and the police and the prisons will be weighed down
with the rest, drowned in the debris.

But a flight of
the mind, an enthusiasm, is something else.

Oh, what's God?
the new God? the God who dances? … the God in us! ...who doesn't give a fuck!
who has difficulty making ends meet! The God that snores!

The damned of
the earth on the one hand, the bourgeois on the other, they have basically only
one idea, to become rich and remain so, it's all the same, heads and tails, no
difference in their hearts. It's all tripe and cattle. Everything for the
stomach.

Only there are
some who are more avid, more agile, some tougher, some lazier, some more
stupid, those who are lucky, those who are not. A question of chance, of birth.
But it's all the same sentiment, the same sickness, the same horror, The ideal
“boa” with fortnightly digestions. All of that rolls on, rolls quite venomously,
tepid, does not exceed 390, it's a misfortune worse than everything
else, the hell of mediocrity, the hell without flames. Fortunately there are
wars that will come, increasingly longer ones, it's fatal.

The earth is
heating up.

The people don't
have any ideal, they only have needs. What are needs?

These prisoners
return, who have no more unemployment, who find delayed work, who have some
security, who are insured against everything, the cold, hunger, arson, who have
paid holidays, retirement, some consideration, card-games and liqueur, then the
cinema and rosewood, a cigar smoking temperament, and a second-hand moped for
trips with the family. It's a fully material programme, of stuffing oneself and
making the least effort. It's the embyronic bourgeoisie that has not yet found
its RNA blot.

The most
terrible upheavals are not going to change its programms. It's the dream of the
disconcerted, of the peasant who no longer has his cow, any land, any chestnut
trees, who hangs on to anything that he finds, who is afraid that he will lose
the world, that everything will fall through his fingers. All that, he tells
himself, is fantastic! it grows by itself, it will not last ...I'll watch my
step as a functionary ...Ah! fuck, I don't give a fuck! Retirement or death!
Insurance or death!

Panic is always
ugly, have to take things as they are.

That would not
be so abominable, that could easily be sorted out, if the atrocious people did
not profit by playing their dirty tricks, the occult cultivators of hatred, who
never let go, poison, set traps, devastate, torture at will.

It's the abyss,
it's the apocalypse, with all its unchained monsters, avid, disintegrating upto
the soul, which half-opens under the little people.

Misery is not
enough to stir the people up, the ill-treatment of the tyrants, the great
military catastrophes, the people will never be incited, they tolerate
everything, even hunger, never any spontaneous revolt, they have to be stirred
up, with what? With cash.

No money, no
revolution.

For the damned
to become conscious of their abominable condition they require a literature,
great apostles, people with highly developed conscience, vitriolic
pamphleteers, fat leaders that yell, leading lights experienced in these
matters, a hysterical press, a radio with divine thunder, otherwise they will
not suspect anything, they'll fall asleep over card-games. All that is paid
for, it's not free, it's a matter of hyperbolic budgets, cartloads of cash that
discharge on the garbage to make it smoke..

One should show
the invoices, who is causing the waste? That's to be seen.

No cash, no
pipes, no big cash registers, no riots as a consequence.

No gold, no
revolution! no more Volga[43]
than butter on trees, no more boatmen than caviar! They're costly the leaders
who resonate, who raise the crowds into a trance. And the rapidly disseminated
whisperings with five hundred donkeys at every crossroads?

That comes to
astronomic sums of money! It's a show, must set its price, the costs of the
riots, that quadruples, it's ruinous! to bring the garbage to a state of
delirium, that they will shake their chains, the cooking pot, the Duraton beef
stock let all that be overturned and the tyrant be happily disembowelled!
fraternity reconquered! freedom of conscience! progress on the march! Let it be
the great opera, the most gigantic of two or three centuries that it is another
life that is beginning! Ah! that then is expensive! extraordinarily! An entire
world of little asses that one must be fed, celebrated, brushed, chicken of all
feathers on the full feed of the Lodges, slugs to be turned over, greased,
heated slowly, let all that wear out, hiss and corrode the building at great
cost. It will be never-ending bills.

The police that
prepare a revolution are unaffordable, the pullulation of emissaries, the
agents provocateurs, the thousands of rancours that follow, and venom that is
returned.

And it's
necessary! never too much! How passive, oblivious the poor world is! the
hot-air of the one who is damned! this is the infernal noise, the one for whom
red wine is sufficient to give him a taste for blood, who can no longer bear
his misfortune, whose condition makes him mad, atrociously savage,
anthropophagous. The one who asks only that he remain as he is, grumbling,
boozing, lazing. He wants to complain, but nothing else. Everything must fall
into his platter. Sorry! Bad luck, Mimi! It's at that point that he allows
himself to be revived by the “ardent” for so much money a day, the
functionaries of the revolt. And it's only the first act, the prelude to the
drama, the synopsis of the play, the noisy gatherings. One should not promise
subsidies for it, one should bring them in luxuriously, it's a catastrophe to
cause the small fry to revolt, it's Peru that is being mobilised, the treasure
of “Shell” moves into action.

No money no
revolution.

It's not
convenient for the damned person that he should be fucking enlightened so that
he may throw himself at the barricades, that he may start to make a fool of
himself. He prefers family life, the bus and the drooling meeting. Deep down he
does not like stories. He is a perfect conservative, he is from the land, a
born Bidasse, one should not forget. Voting should indeed do, that's what he
thinks deep down. He does not believe in sacrifices, in pools of blood. He does
not even want to go there. For that reason it is necessary to enrage him,
pierce him like a bull to death. He's a thundering mess. He is loud-mouthed,
but peaceful. More bluffing than smashing. Of course he still wants violence
but only if it's others who suffer.

He is like the
entire French army, he wants to march in triumph. He wants his car, his
rosewood, his old-age pension at thirty, all the reasons not to die. The fish
at the bait. Who says more? He does not wish to die at all. The civil guard
kills very well! They have machine guns! Caution first of all!

What's the use
of changing the social order that others may enjoy themselves and that one is
dead or a martyr? Victory? That's easy to say! But there's no omelettes without
breaking eggs! And no good victory for the dead! Everybody is forced to reflect
...What guarantees? Everybody asks himself silently ...Is this really serious?
Is one going to die for comfort?

Let the others
collapse if they want to! We'll see soon how that goes! … that's the snag, the
sensitive point, the peasant who “will not go out on a limb”, it's that which
one should propel towards crime! at full volume! let the money enter in a
panic! The old Bastille and its nine walls, will always be there, haughty,
arrogant, formidable, and would really not bother anybody, not even Fresnes[44]
or the Īle de Ré, if the bankers, the demons of London, had not done the required,
set alight the laced meat on time, unleashed the riots, the carnage, raised the
hurricane of the peddlers, the conventional torrents of slime,the boiling of
the blood. The great-grandson of Louis XIV would still be at the Elysée and Marie-Antoinette revered by all the school children,
patroness of sheep farming, if Pitt had not incited the little pen-pushers of the
epoch, corrupted the doddering nobility,
distributed cash in full sacks, bribed the court and the country, the mother
abbesses and the executioners … Without gold ideas are nothing. One must dole
out cash in abundance, in bushels, in tons, to incite the people. One who does
not have that will not incite anybody. Not today any more than in the past.
First of all a sponsor! That's the condition of the show! And no little vain
losers! a scatter-brained wild stooge! Ugh! What a horror! What insolence! No! Such
a colossal sum of money! The most expensive of operas! Can you imagine it? The
opera of insurrection! With floods! Symphonic choirs! Oh! la! la! If that draws
you! Feel it before touching it! You have it? You don't? What's your bank?
You're stiff?

Then shut up!
Scram! Don't bullshit anybody! You're just a little smartass! a badly bred
little boy! Go and learn some music! That will discipline your mind! One
organises an insurrection only with cash and no fakes! little flicks! No! No!
Torrents! Cyclones of cash!

The Guillotine
is the daughter of Guichet.[45]
Ah! finding a sponsor is the beginning of every great affair, the dream of
every serious person, without a sponsor no take-off, the genius himself runs idle, a buffoon soon,
exhausts himself in onanistic mirages. Nothing can succeed without money,
nothing is accomplished, completed, everything evaporates at the first blow. At
the first wicked contrary wind, the first little cabal, everything is
dissipated and disappears. To hold the people together, have them as a free
pack of wolves, one must guarantee soup to them, a regular and copious bowl,
otherwise they will take many masters and your pack does not exist any longer,
the adventure is finished for you, the hunt is closed off to you.

Ah! these are
things you should know, respect, these are laws.

Take, for
example, Lenin and his comrade Macaire[46]-Trotsky,
they know the bottom of the sack, the lucky end of spells, they did not embark
in a rush …

Admire their
foresight, their administrative spirit, their impeccable sobriety, their
vigilance at every watch for any decent sponsor …. never a second of
distraction from the essential point: cash! On the lookout from the
nerve-centre of fool-proof battles.

Ah! how serious
these people are! They would not be heated up by airy motions, by
aniseed-flavoured wines of friendship, by crackpot ventures, by ham-actors'
vociferations, by Romantic sound-explosions, all the mangy bears of the
menagerie that frighten only little children. They perhaps wanted little
congresses that harm nobody, to show that way that they have some troops, and
quite submissive, that they are listened to in low places, at the gatherings of
the wretched, those agitated by injustice, the outward shows of oppression,
inanities about the Great Cause, those undernourished by filthy broth, the café-au-lait cockroaches, the feverish mixture of wretchedness, bile
and gibberish, it's necessary for the itch, the exasperation of stupidity, the
pathetic hot-air of the masses. Orators who puke everywhere, the soaked dog
without an overcoat, fangs produced by caries, splayfooted because they are in
mourning, with mouths for their stomachs, everythng that is to be found in a
rancid corpse, which moves from one shelter to another, a bag of fries for the
Santé
prison, that's necessary for envenoming the crowd.
Ah! these are the martyrs of the cause! Ah! these are things one should know,
how they bite, growl, and then throw up on the morsel, ungrateful people,
disloyal and ambitious as soon as they have dined a bit, because it's not
often.

Oh! the coarse
class, oh! the extremely repulsive clique, for the entrepreneurs who do not
wish to collapse hunting mushrooms, engulfed by crappy projects, muddled with
debates, lost in moonlight, promises. Rhetoric is for the crowds, for the
leaders a guarantor is needed, the true guarantor is the bank.

There stand the
keys to the dream, the little North and the great secret, the Whispers of the
Revolution. No bankers no mass movements, no emotion of the deep strata, no
passionate surges, no Cromwell, no Marat either, no flight to Varennes,[47]
no Danton, no promiscuity, no nonsense.

No Robespierre
who resists for two days without the black stock market .Who opens credits,
leads the dance.

Everything is
credit, validated treaties, especially in the critical moments when the reports
are prickly.

No fussing,!no
trifling! … Advertisements are not posted by themselves … the billstickers do
not give credit ...they present their invoice the same evening … For them every
evening is the big night.

These are the
humble servitudes, Everything is mean in the corridors. That's why Lenin's
group succeeded. Not only because they were Yids but they were also serious, up
to date on affairs, they were not launched in an exposed manner, they were sure
of their cash, they were stuffed right at the start.

Immediately they
gained people's confidence. On behalf of whom were they talking? On behalf of
the world of the oppressed? the innumerable damned of the earth? those crushed
by injustice? those distressed by imposture?

That's quite
understood, that goes without saying! But also, may one say especially, on
behalf of the Loeb-Warburg Bank, which is something else as a guarantor
throughout the world,

They were
filled, these big slimies on high horses before propagating the riots, and no
'for whom?' is heard, that sounds cheerful, that reverberates … except of the
divine jingling … which moves heaven and earth
… all the echoes of success ...which is the sorcery of the passions
...Which is the wave of magic straight to the hearts ...that around it all
music is extinguished, the fresh jingling of money ...the prestigious
wavelength! …

Of course, one
was at home, Trotsky, Warburg, Loeb ...Jewish bankers .. agitators ...poets and
peasants … It required nothing but to meet one another, to serve in unison the Good Cause, the one that counts, that of
the Yids ...the Great Cause of the Great Trick, the great, definitive, sealed,
secret bundling up of the Aryans, the absolute Kingdom of Isaac which extends
from Heaven to Hell with Durand who runs stupid as always, skin burning, feet
burning as he runs across the ashes, tearing his flesh for his master, serving
it to him quite hot, bleeding, to the point that he has nothing to say of his
Durand, who has perished of love. This is what Warburg and then Lenin and then
Ttotsky and then many others whom I shall not name certainly saw. It was
understood, natural, it was the community of dreams, the true Kosher Communism,
all of us bleeding served well-cooked.

They have
learned this in the cradle in their essential legend, read a bit of the Talmud
and the Torah. There's that there a
hundred times and more. We were born upside down, we were born for catechism,
the angelus of the horse-hair shirt, the breviary of sirloins,
consumers, beasts for the battle, carting around and peddling deadweight,
worthless streetwalkers, contemptible peasants, our women for the Khedive, to
distract him from his toothache, if he finds her buxom enough, if she makes
herself pretty in every feature.

Lenin, Warburg,
Trotsky, Rothschild all think together of all that. No difference in prepuce,
it's Marxism hundred percent. Banks, convicts all are in accord. It's the
Boatmen of the Volga. It's red hawks of Puteaux[48]
who are delighted that this has happened! They already see the world becoming
better, full of nougats for their little mouths! Wait dear gluttons of clouds,
you are going to gorge yourself on my toys, Santa Claus is going to take you on
a walk!

They understood
one another immediately, Warburg, the Bank and Trotsky. All that was in the
signs … a cheque presented by the New York Times clinched the deal, 200
million dollars to destroy the enterprise of the Tsar, topple, flatten the
Romanovs, not 200 million clarinets, 200 million for costs and kind! Trotsky
himself made the voyage, presented his plans, his personality, his methods,
immediately he pleased Mssrs. Schiff, Warburg and Loeb with his ideas …but not
too much with his personality, … They found him a little too restless, a little
too ardent, hysterical ...of course, they trusted him perfectly but, finally,
isn't it, in spite of everything ... 200 million?, that's a real sum. … 200
million golden dollars, he could quickly have an accident ...an assassin may
emerge quickly ...It arrived at the wrong time that Lenin just found himself
without a position ...somewhat the trigger of the movement ….he quite serious,
an ascete, an iron bone one might say … next to Trotsky .. He pleased Mssrs.
Loeb very much ...They took him on his reputation ….engaged him with full
confidence.

He was then in
Paris, starving in Rue Delambre … Kalmuk white coffee … he was only half-Jewish
...That was the minimum for New York … Deal done … Sorry! … This boom! … This
departure like a tornado! The mangy Bolshevik party which a week before was
only a painful little piece of trash, a curiosity hardly public, a handful of
lunatics, now I say this balloon! This shot at the stars! … 200 million dollars
works funnily! … it scores! It electrifies! It is everywhere! It knocks
everything over! Kerensky shakes, baulks, disappears! He is no longer to be
seen! .. the effect is so sudden .. He finds himself quite pulverised! .. The
“Bolshevik” in an armchair .. Limited … It's a New York value …Everything is
knocked over, brought down, the earth opens …

The Romanovs are
caput. the Cadets with them, the Mensheviks over, and their hairy beard, and
the Pique Dame! … the game is over!
Nicholas II departs into the snow, he goes there a thousand leagues away with
his family, his little sabre, and his amulets …The masses then, how they feel!
they enter into a trance volcanically! … it's the eruption of the deep strata!
the farandole[49]
of the Great Hopes … It's “ten days that shake the world”! … Mr. Loeb is very
happy … He does not waste time at the telegraph! … his little associates
neither … Trotsky their son, the good news …

Over there the
great cabal is moved. All the Cohens are
on the bridge. From Chicago to Wall Street it's an immense jubilation … All the
luxury ghettos are delighted, in the rear Lodges things are boiling … the
Fraternities are convulsed with joy …It's decidedly the promised age! ,,, The
sacrifice has succeeded! … The entire Jewish bank contributes …The steamship
arrives via Stockholm … When it arrives at Petrograd, the 150 bags are opened,
then its ecstasy, one might say! … the twelve commisars, all Yids, just as many
as the Twelve of Misfortune, they know what hurting means, they do not mistake
that for slight cuts, they know the song of the world, that it's the good oil of miracles, that now
everything could happen! Now it's the marvellous gala! The Progress machine
starts. puffs, revs up, whirls vertiginously, it's a dynamo of Justice, of Equality,
Enlightement, buzzing with a full Goyim barbecue! Seven million bourgeois are
slain in less than two months of courts martial. That funnily clears out the
air! This is something else than small movements of flaky primary-school teachers, snotty little
villains, bilious little snoops, insomniacs, cockroaches of Future Cities,
stinkers and purblind people, lepers without ulcers, dogs, conformisms of
slight bitterness, choleric bacteria of shady waters! But then, sorry for a
minute! It's a Continental Theatre! 120 million people on stage! without
counting the dead, wounded, those killed collaterally, sacrificed in the
corners ...

And then more
expense, general rehearsals, perorators on dual pay, sly wordsmiths who are not
nourished by their hyperboles, who have to be instructed day and night through
remuneration and triple wages.

The insurrection
is on its knees when it has paid its invoices. Resolutions waver, the
red-cheeked virgins become somewhat pale … “Progress on the move” is an abyss.

Even with the
Warburg Kuhn Bank, it croaked one moment. It was such a surfeit, such an
overeating in the steppes after the excitement in Washington that there was a
little moment of squabbling, the Jewish dollars needed to be persuaded … The
Russian commisars cheated … As soon as Lenin subsided, he retired to Finland …
He had been to school, he knew the cost of gold … the independence that it
gives you … he did not want to dry up … led like that, the gentle child … He
did not want to be under Trotsky ...he did not want to be restrained ...nor
find himself lagging behind anybody … “So return my dear Lenin”, Trotsky
contacted him every morning … “All of Russia asks for you … it's a fervour for
your skill! The mujhiks[50]
do not feel any intoxication any more! at the prospect of happiness! Return,
radiant little father! Guide our steps towards the other world! of legal
equality! of the redemption of the damned! It's a piece of cake! with music!
What an ecstasy of our ideas! the triumph of Progress on the move! It does not
gallop any longer! It charges! It flies! … We shall all be in unison at the
railway station … all the last delegations ...all of the Progressosieff
Comintern ...the Godlessovs ...the Trotsgranskis … the hideous Siphonievs
...all these to greet you! … Come, dear Lenin! Come! Please … Come!”

But Lenin still
scratches his head … He is not quite
sure … He reflects ...he is really not in such a hurry … He concentrates … he
weighs the matter … he takes a walk in Helsingor … He is not in such a hurry to
rejoin … Here's an idea that occurs to him …He goes to the Western Telegraph …
he feels an emotion also for New York ...This is the moment that he tells
himself to take advantage of … And that's it! ... Trotsky is cheated! …

This was the
classic, impeccable blow, the bang on the gong of the sponsor, who is engaged
to the gills, who is transported by his “advances”, who runs after his
loot. The Loeb did not want to be
sentimental, be dampened, along with the twelve tribes, poked the Sanhedrin,
made the highest magnates of the Lodges and Wall Street spit it out, that
everything might not unwind, that their revolution might not shake, end in a
vast pogrom ...The impossible horror! … Let's go! The final effort! 40 more in
advance! 40 million dollars!

All that via
Stockholm-Helsingor for the workers' goal!

Boom! Lenin
packs up! Now there was no point in delaying, in fussing about the
preparations,. The affair solidly laid out, beyond the initial stays, could
fear nothing more of anybody, the bases were there, the sponsor.

It was conceived
on the anvil, hot, with gold above all, the treasure well hidden in holes, the
divine ballast. Lenin does not hesitate any more, he perfects himself, he
dresses up, livens up, assumes fitting clothes, the worn-out suit with a short
jacket, the definitive accountant “at home” … the winter scarf … he's working,
he repeats his role of twenty years ago … perfectly … Here's the “man of his
word, the soul of the masses” … he enters the scene in perfect form ...That's
intelligence for you! … he becomes the tough guy! he embarks! … Bang! … Bang!
.. Petrograd! … He is now boiling …

It's the Messiah
who emerges from the train … the damned drink up his words ...He no longer
speaks of airy currents ...He speaks of things that mean something … He can now
allow himself … These are messages ...These are values ...It's the Credo that
causes the world to revolt! … and the mountains too! ...The American wheat is
with him … Yiddishness courses through his veins. All his words are in dollars.
He has paid upfront: the inertia of the opponents, the corruption of the
adverse leaders, that becomes velvet…
hazelnut butter … It's the mead of the Neva! … He is speaking of gold, you
know, that's saying everything! .. Immediately the damned hold themselves back
no longer … The great orchestra becomes delirious, all the musicians are paid
for! The great drunken orgy fills the crossroads! … mujiks, donkeys, convicts,
whores, Yiddish commisars, blackmarketeers, all of them in a danse macabre,
full of corpses, and that's the party! that's the shindig at Peter and Paul,[51]
Doetoyevsky doing the polka! It's the “Sickle and Hammer” accordion music at
the slaughter-house of the Great Judas. People laugh aloud, they are bloodied.
More of the little carmagnole.[52]
It's the sarabande of the Thunder! that God. Himself is pleased, that the Devil
hands him the cymbals! by Jehovah! It's the great Crazy! let the dance get out
of control, let the entire world be convulsed! spin! be crushed! drinks
everywhere! flowing! ...so that it's no longer something strange.

Mssrs. Kuhn and
Warburg regain a strange confidence, they entertain themselves in telegrams,
this is great vintage work! pure carat satisfaction! One could not do better in
so few days! It's intensive, it costs a world, but by Isaac, by fuck, it's an
orgiastic diamond flash! It's not things to deprive oneself of when one hoards
millions! What use are they then?

It only remained
to finish the job. One forgot Romanov. He had remained in the train there
towards Irkutsk … with Madame and the children … They were finished off quickly
...They were saying their family prayers in the Ipatieff house … That could not
last forever …They were crushed in the basement ...Nicholas, Madame and his
daughters … They were turned into dead meat ...except a hand that remains still
in Switzerland preserved in a strong-box. Thus goes the life of the great …

And then – in
order that nobody be ignorant of who was involved in it ...It was engraved in
Hebrew, in the letters of the Kabbalah, in the wall, here and there, quite
close to the ground, close to the corpses, “Glory and Good Fortune to the
Jewish People” …

That really
commemorated the matter. I've seen the photograph of these marvellous
hieroglyphs (mission of General xxx in Siberia).

Of course there
are some sceptical persons … There are always some of these ...always were …

It's devilry all
that! … the ones in Irkutsk! … Go see for yourself! …. One is not the tsar! … I
neither, of course … that's for sure! … I am worried about the liturgical
harmony! …I'm worried about the hand that is in Switzerland! .. which should
indeed be pressed one day … For the sake
of intellectual continuity ...for the persistence of Design … Communism is the
great Dada, it's the great Jewish battle-horse.

The only way for
us to get out of it: shake it from its cavorting, we should jump on it, we can
indeed.

The Jewish
bluffer, dirty dickhead, good for nothing, he himself will not know what to do
with Communism when he has it, He'll botch, mess everything up. He can't avoid
that, it's his nature. Social justice for the Jew? He, the pheasant, the
pharaoh, the one who pulls the wool over your eyes, the born pimp of the
universe, the hysterical scum satrap of the East, the bastard of all the
mystics, the one incapable of any trade, the parasite of all times, the
impostor of all trafficking, the Malagauffre[54]
turned canaille! This is the New Man? Oh, sorry! That would be funny, that
would be a miracle, that would be the first time in the world that a Jew came
out of slogan-making, dirty tricks, plots, to return to the common fold, to the
level of whores, to regulate, correctly, and fertilise the land, in equality. But
that never! That doesn't exist! That's the entire opposite of his nature!

Shat by Moses,
he holds his rank as a super deluxe vintage, peer of only the other shits, in
Moses, in the Eternal! He is only rotten, and corrupting. He has only one
authentic thing in the depths of his substance of shit, it's his hatred for us,
his contempt, his rage to have us sink ever deeper into a common grave. What
does he expect of Communism? To squeeze us more tightly, to choke us still
tighter into the Jewish prison.

All workers,
yes, but under him! And for what purpose? His caprices, oh well, his fantasy,
his apotheosis of the pseudo-negro. There's something of L'Ouverture[55]
in every Jew, I would expedite all of them over there, to Saint-Domingue, to
the Caribbean, that would be a good climate for them, they would see in the
islands what it is, Communism among cousins, since they do not want Palestine
any more.

If there were
still any marrow within the corpse of the Frenchman, it would be time to try,
absolutely between ourselves, here itself, the famous Communist talisman, the
universal panacea, before the Jews inflict it on us without asking for our
opinion, for their triumph and our torture. That would be elementary prudence,
the Jews absolutely excluded, otherwise it would be a catastrophe, it would be
a collapse into the abyss, into the Cabbalist reptilarium, into the abyss of
ulterior motives.

Eating the Jew
is not enough, I declare, that would go round in circles, like a joke, a way of
beating the drum, if one does not seize their stripes, and strangle them with
them. Here's the task, here's the man. Everything else is just endless talk, it
makes you sick, all the newspapers that are supposedly ferociously
anti-Semitic, what do they basically want? the place of the Yids? Settle their
dear selves there? It's very meagre as a programme. The one who benefits from
an idea is already a blessed whore, I don't want to believe that they are like
that. In any case, no contempt, the way they trumpet on, they could be out of
breath playing this note for decades and centuries, it would not cause an
enthusiasm to arise in the French masses or advance the question one inch. The
Frenchman, first, does not give a fuck about it, he thinks of his lot, of
misfortune, his lot, his personal misfortune, his little lot, nothing else, the
rest he does not give a fuck about, they're just ideas, he does not want them.
He is cold, he is chapped. All these preaching newspapers are optimistic in
this regard. That's necessary for a newspaper, it's the army uniform, it's the
traditional posture, it's the rotary whirr.. Should go out, to be sure of
oneself. To see some stars in the night. What a cramp in fleeting time! … They
have to mess around, dedicate themselves, they should not relax for one minute
… It's a bubble, it evaporates … They should not laugh, they would get caught …
It's a bubble, it rises ...the masses look at it, they look at everything, but
they do not wish to rise, they are afraid of breaking their necks.

The newspapers
are funny, they scratch their heads ….That does not follow! ...They are
bothered … They've been trying to warm up the cold meat for months … De Gaulle
would see some stiff ones if he came by! … He does not doubt that the French
enthusiams is frigid! ...He would be nauseated in less than two months ...Adèle is dead, she does not move … What does Adèle want? … the fatherland? the cheap cuts? … candour? …
naturalism? … the moral order? … anathemas? … names and titles? ...or tickles?
...big trials? … great poets? Ah! one does not understand the cow any more …
she queues up .. she continues to grumble endlessly … It's the “claim” that she has … to the
depths of the molecules of the pineal gland ...Nothing moves her so much as
complaining ...and then the blackmarket … or that one has butter? potatoes? to
the tobacconist's! … that the tobacconist is from Coutance, that she has seen
some German soldiers - not she, but her niece - a spectacle really too
horrible, who were drowned in an upright position in the sea, and arrived in that
way up to the shore, on account of their boots filled with water.

I understand by
Jew any man who has a Jew, a single one, among his grandparents!

That cannot be
overcome. It's sad. The boulevard press demean themselves, they tear their
hair, with malaise, to see themselves like that in quarantine, underestimated
by the French masses. As they are sufficiently brainwashed, that does not make
these water-diviner politicians think, they are not capable of that. They have
a hobby-horse, they persist in it, they cavort, they don't see what happens on
the pavements. So that they are going to get hit in the mouth by frightful
tornados one of these days. It's not necessary to be a great astrologer to
predict such things. They continue in the softness, in the emptiness, their entire career depends
on it, the Jews here! the Lodges there! … But that does not interest the
public! … Less and less, as one says! They then confront adversity, they rush
against the current, they stir up the policy holders … “The movement assumes an
ever-increasing size … makes our masses more and more impassioned … the towns,
the country ... our masses become effervescent! they demand the death of the
Masons! … of the Yids! of their creations! who have put France in this state!
In this extremely atrocious position! … In this infamous mess! ...”

But it's not
true! the tooth-pullers! the masses ask for nothing at all! they would rather
shout “Long live the Jews!”, who know better how to promise the moon. It makes
no difference that our apostles say that we should not remain in our errors,
should not bear the spirit of one who is defeated, a newspaper is made to turn
things round, it's a bulletin of hope that is sold, that does not harm anybody,
let's yell for Father Christmas, he'll come! It's Coué[56] from day to day. It would perhaps be honest to take this into
account …

The people are
not anti-Jewish, they are not judeophagous. They want to eat only the
bourgeois, the bourgeois whom they know well, their ideal, their model, their
immediate patron, who is from the same county capital, from the same hole, the
same village, who speaks their patois, their successful French brother, not
judeophagous at all. The Jew is not in question, anti-Semitism is boring, the
vulgar invention of the bourgeois and their sidekicks to divert the very
legitimate fury of the poor people onto an innocent group. But the people will
not march, they know too well what to expect! they are well-informed! “The Jew
is a deserving person, he is a person to be saved, he's a person persecuted by
Nazi capitalism, a person whom one tries to sully with one's racist twaddle,
the anti-Semite is a Cagoulard,[57]
an enemy of the proletariat, a hireling Fascist of the bosses, of the big
businesses, of the trusts, of the Wendels.”

And that's it,
and that's all.

One returns to
the question of dough. The big question of the present time. The Jew is
mysteriour, he has strange ways, he is international, he acts as if he were
miserable, he has cash that is not visible, he has an accent, more or less, and
thus prestige, while Arsène his foster-brother who has had
a success as a tailor, “Jerseys, macramé of all types”, who was born in
the Bézives Street, three houses after the post office, this one is indeed a
bastard! who rides at present in a car, who has his villa by the sea, who has a
servant for his two children, there's somebody that's intolerable! a true
bastard who should be removed! I don't see anything inconvenient in it. You
want Communism? Oh! A wild dog! Serve him hot! You will be tired before me! I'm
not going to defend the bourgeois Arsène, stinking, nauseating, neo-Yid,
hypocrite, a vile “can can”. Never! Eradicate this infection! His example
poisons everything. That should have been done a long time ago. Neither Caliban
nor Ariel, he is manure from which nothing grows. A rotten Aryan is not worth
more than a Jew, perhaps a little less.

All that does not advance us
much ...what to do of the popular Lion? One does not know what to do with him
...One would like to dope him a bit, give him back some alertness, appetite for
big things, a taste for high sentiments … He baulks, he does not want your
salads, what he wants is to eat the bourgeoisie, that's what speaks to him,
incites him ….He is rendered quite melancholic that he is prevented from dining
… The popular Lion does not want your trifles! your pale parsley, your airy
ideas, he wants some barbecue, and hot, plump bourgeois capital, fine
paupiettes,[58]
plump pork rinds … Oh! he is scum … He wants to eat even the mink, mule-skin
used for crocodile skin from Madame at 1225 francs a pair. He wants all that,
he wants everything, that's been promised since May 1936.

Nobody has been able to put him
on board a train either for war or for peace. He is envious, he is sly, he
drools, he is the worst of caged beasts, he no longer does honour to anybody,
he is no longer presentable. He's an animal that has become impossible. He
wants to eat his bourgeois. But give him to him, for god's sake! It's been 12
centuries that that has been simmering! It's now or never! Do you want
catastrophes then? The Jew has prepared the events, so much the worse for you,
so much the worse for us! His taste will perhaps pass from the bourgeoisie to
the people if he can go so far … and more! He'll know what happiness is!

It's like that at the
confectioners, one does not prohibit young women, the new saleswomen, from
tasting their merchandise. On the contrary, one encourages them. “But take one,
do take one! Put your fingers into all these fine jars! Treat yourselves ….” At
the end of a week they do not want any more of them, they are cured forever.
They know what sweets are.

The bourgeois, in spite of his
claims, is not the entire History of the World, he is only a moment that will
pass. It's worth eating him like the rest, the day that he's really ripe. He
should not ask for impossible things, arbitrary prolongations, undue delays.
There are fateful times like that, hours that strike on the clock-face. At
twenty his daughters are married, at 1942 society munches its bourgeois. After
a payment they're manure. They are already turned into preserves. It's a
service that one is going to do to them. They would suffer if they insist. They
are beginning to lack everything.

For the people Communism is the
means, the trick of acceding to the bourgeoisie immediately, at the grab-fest.
To jump into privileges calmly., a Baptist once and for all.

The City of the Future for the
worker is his personal pavilion with 500 metres of land, carefully closed on
four sides, canalised if possible, and that nobody comes to bother him. All
that registered before the notary public. It's a housewife's dream, a dream of
a decadent people, a woman's dream. When women dominate to this degree, that
all men dream like them, one might say that the game is over, that greatness is
dead, that this country turned into a whore, in war as in peace, can defend
itself in future only in small ways, that men can only do their duty as
housebreakers, and take out all these sentimentalities, abolish all this
planning.

Will there be yellow folk?
whites? blacks? pure people? complicated ones? Will one die at the wedding
party? It's quite possible, it's even probable.

It's always the case that there
will be men and boors, rulers who will not ask their grandmothers how one
should dream in life, who will have the disposition of louts.

Anything more
idiotic than the Frenchman? It's really impossible, isn't it? And especially
the intellectual? Literally enraged as soon as it is a question of enlightening
oneself about the Jewish significance. A masochistic snob. And there's no race!
And there's no Jew! And me here! I know this! And can can! And so on! I know
that! I'm an expert in scepticism! Ah! Gobineau! what a fool! This Montandon,[59]
what a comedian! And Michelet,[60]
what a sellout! And let me get you on board with explosions with total idiot
information! mind-boggling phenomenal, complete, cannon-sounds of 100,000
cock-ups! and always against the grain, against one's own, against one's blood,
and always for the glory of the Jew, his apotheosis, his genius, his undoubted
preeminence. Always a little Jew there in the corner, lying low, mocking,
groping around … spying on the gushing goyim ... now that he is reassured he approaches …
seing his object fully on fire ...passes his hand over this pretty idiot! …
encourages him, needles him, caresses him, strokes his skin, above ... below …
rejoices …. Ah! the good Aryan always the same, always like himself, always
ready to make the Jew happy! Ah! how frank he is! Ah! how dedicated he is! Ah how
juicy he is to the end! And how he begins to act, the pretty idiot, refreshed
with such hot, intimate, humanitarian understanding.

“Ah! By god!
There is no race! There's no Jew either, bloody bollocks! What is a Jew? What a
lie! What a crass abomination! What filth of the Fascists1 Isn't it the shame
of our era to see such dinosaurs! the blood of dripping victims? all stuck
together with apostolic hearts! twisting, grinding, tearing the substance
itself of truth! its luminous flesh and music!”

Does the little
Jew drink in his words! He feels no more violent ecstasy, he leaves alone in
his soutane! to see in this way the good man speaking so well! with so much
enthusiasm! so besotted! with so much fervour! let that transport him, the
drunken fool! that he is sure that there are no more races! Hooked on it,
inexhaustible, what a triumph of dribbling! let him go on foerver! till he
loses his soul

…….......................

IV

All of that
wastes us and kills us …

If our gaiety is
extinguished the gods themselves will be contrite …

Alas, the
heavens then will be heavier …

We wish to live
without knowing … We indeed want to die laughing … as frivolously … as possible
…

Does Destiny
haunt us still? … rough, bitter reasons mumble …

Gaiety alone
will save us, not the factory! nor a plan of this or that, nor the grumbling of
oafs, nor strategems of loutish mongrel ruffians, concrete patchwork of “Tour
Eiffels” with equipment, trust concerns, big Taylor[61]
calamities, pyramidal deliriums, stinking mastodons in clusters, crushing our
statistical lives under Deluges of cast-iron agglomerates, paranoid delights.
Death to all ovens and chimneys!

Let's indulge,
celebrate our music, ours! which will allow us to sail over prettily over the
horrors of the Age with a beautiful and fresh and nimble flight! at our
pleasure! on our whims! pipes! clarinets! skin drum! Let's embrace one another!
No mercy to big paunches! To bitter grimaces! sacrifices! that's medicine of
dogs! Indeed the dance will have to be paid for! damn! musicians of our choice!

Who will pay?
The rich, of course! They have come to us from the depths of the centuries,
with the express purpose of entertaining us, cheering us up with their
generosity! You doubt that?

Ah! let us
regain our gaiety! where is it hiding? Under the pennies?

Let's share
them! Ah! The universe will be surprised when it learns that the French share
their money! That has never been seen before! Ah! let us regain our gaiety! Ah!
let's all run to the sacrifice! Ah! no more gloomy looks! gay! Gay! let's dance
the polka! all to the sharing of the spoils! … Why have the people lost their
fresh laughter and verses? The money! the money! the question is decided!
Harpagon[62]
is hanged!

Ah! certainly a
very ardent partisan of social justice. Justice should be made to rule, and
immediately, not ten years later! By god! That'll cleanse the atmosphere, purge
the rancours! Justice should be made to rule, the vengeance of the oppressed,
not because that pleases them but because that's the cure, the balm of the jealous,
the envious, those enraged at money, of everybody in short today, of society as
a whole that does not have a single idea outside money, the bourgeois that it
may not disappear, the poor man that he may rob him.

It's the uniform
sickness, it will be necessary to operate on it with one cut! Make a long and
wide incision on the abscess, let it bleed as much as possible!

As long as one
has not opened up Cash, one has done nothing serious, wicked cauterisations on
rottenness, organised blackmarket, half-baked melodies, clarinets ...

It's not a
question of speeches, nor of the moral order, nor of the police, nor of
elections either, it's Big Bucks that one should operate on, empty his pockets,
cut his purse-strings, bring that all out in public. It's hygiene without
perfuming, cleaning the backside of society, afterwards it can play the
coquette. As such it is an infection, a very discouraging hideousness, so that
it's no longer funny, that it's no longer anything at all.

The mediating
revolution?

How are you
going to cope with it?

I decree a
national salary of 100 francs a day maximum, and revenues similarly for the
bourgeois who still remain, fractions of private incomes, so that I do not
starve anybody while waiting for the New Order. Nobody can earn more than 100
francs, the dictator included, a national salary, the national pound. All
surplus goes over to the state. A radical cure of the jealous, 100 francs for
the bachelor, 150 for households, 200
francs with three children, 25 francs extra for any child after the
third. Maximum total salary: 300 francs a day for Father Gigogne.[63]
That would be an extreme exception, the average 70-100 francs.

Of course there
will be some who are outraged by it, who find that this is not just at all,
those who do not earn their hundred francs ...Sorry! sorry! Everything has been
foreseen! 50 francs minimum salary, 75 for a married man, 100 francs for
fathers of families with at least three children. I have thought of them.

No more
unemployment of course. How do you suppress that?

I nationalise
the banks, the mines, the railways, the insurances, industry, the big stores …
That's all? I kolkhoz[64]
any agriculture larger than so many hectares, the navigation routes, I collect
the wheat, the grains, livestock husbandry, and the hens with their eggs, I
find work for everybody. And those who do not want to work? I send them to
prison, if they are sick, I take care of them.

In this way
there will be no more complaints, everybody should be in agreement with it, I
take the poets into consideration too, I will make them make amusing films,
pretty animated cartoons, so that that might elevate the level of the
souls,that's necessary. Once one has stepped out of the tripe, out of the
obsession with the stomach, all the little hopes are permitted.

One does not
need big Communism, they wouldn't understand any of it, one needs Labiche[65]
Communism, petty bourgeois Communism, with the pavilion, hereditary, and a
family inheritance, absolutely unseizable, and the garden of 500 metres, and
insurance against everything. Everybody a little proprietor, the obligatory
property of Loucheur.[66]
Always the 100 francs maximum, the married at 125 francs, the grannies at 150.
That would lead to frightful debates, caretaking for those who are hard of
hearing, a paradise for housewives, people will not stop gossiping about the
profiteers who have 4 to 5 children, but that will not matter any more,
differences of 25 francs cannnot stir the masses to revolt.

Let's vote in a
mean way, let's vote in a mediocre, we'll be sure of not deceiving ourselves.

Let's look at
the patient as he is, not as the apostles imagine him to be, eager for great
transformations. He is eager for little comforts.

When he is
better,we'll see, one could make projects for him, great symphonies of
adventure, god, we're not yet there! If one goes beyond that, he will burst, he
will collapse in his pants, he will fall apart in tatters, he will run off into
a jujube, he already does not hold himself up steady ...He is syphilitic with
envy as the bourgeois is with avarice. It's the same microbe, the same
treponema.[67]

It's that which
gives them abscesses, tortures them, makes them grimace.

To operate on
both of them together, with the same scalpel, is Providence and charity, it's
social resurrection.

They are too
ugly to behold, as such, convulsing in their shit, one should act, it's a duty,
it's the honesty of the surgeon, a quite simple, very neat incision, almost
without bleeding, a hypersensitive, very ripe drainage ... a small drain ...some dressing .. and then that's all … a week or ten days …

I don't like
amateurs, weak-willed people. One should not undertake an explosion or else one
should finish it, should not leave if halfway, that nobody gives a fuck about
your talk …

If one makes a
revolution, it's not to make it in half measures, it's necessary that everybody
is satisfied, with precaution, gentleness, but with an awareness of things,
that one does not evade anything, that one has done all that one could.

What is the
other great dream of the Frenchman? of 99 Frenchmen out of 100? It's to be and
to die a functionary, with an assured pension, something modest but certain,
dignity in life.

And why not
please them? I don't see anything wrong in that. It's a Communist ideal,
independence assured by the dependence
of everybody. It's the end of “each for himself”, of “all against one”, of “one
against all”. You say: They will not accomplish anything great any more. Oh!
That's to be seen … We''ll talk about that again … I find that perfectly legitimate
that the man wants to be peaceful for the end of his life. That's normal ...and
employment security ...that's everybody's dream. I don't see anything wroing in being worried,
I've been quite worried myself, I've had trouble making ends meet! I think I'm
a champion in that, but I have a horror of it nevertheless. I don't see what
use that is for the recovery of society, the pleasant march of Progress, to
work one's arse off, to crap like so many robbers, without an end or a break,
achievements gained through the anguish that it's the crematory of life.

There are always
some comfortably wealthy, the gifted sons of archbishops who speak to you of
the beauties of anguish, I would drive my car, my handcart, into them! with my
school certificate! at the age of 12! I'll give them a taste of suffering!

The Jew wants
everything that you want, is always in agreement with you, on one condition:

That it's always
he who is in charge.

He is for
democracy, progress, all instruction as long as it is in his direction.

Big labels and
big treacheries.

The formula is a
matter of indifference to him, he always manages, as long as it is he who is in
charge, definitively, through intermediaries, through occult missions, through
the banks, through universal suffrage, through half-Jews, through Masons,
through dynastic marriages, anything you want, and the Soviets, provided that
it's he that is in charge.

He plies his
business in the Nordic monarchies as well as in the Kalmuk Cominterns or in the
Lodges of Mexico. He is at his ease everywhere provided that it's he who is in
charge. Never gives up his tricks.

He sings the
song that you want, will dance to any music, wiggling with the apes, howling
with the poor wolves, zigzagging with the serpents, imitating all the animals,
all the races, all the passports, provided that it's he who is in charge.

He's a mime, a
whore, he would have disappeared a long time ago by passing into other people,
if he did not have avarice, but his avarice saves him, he has exhausted all the
races, all men, all animals, the earth is now sick, made so by his fiddling, he
is no longer satisfied, he always annoys the universe, the heavens, the good
God, the stars, he wants everything, he wants more, he wants the moon, he wants
our bones, he wants our guts to install them on the Sabbath, to show off at the
Carnival. He is a madman who should be bound up fully, he's only an absurd
filthy jerk, a false hysterical wimp, a menagerie impostor, an annoying
wriggler, a clawed hybrid that plots. He accompanies us, that's the misfortune,
he's a monster that clings, the horror in one's home, he has climbed into the
boat instead of a real animal. He does not want to leave our side any longer
the moment it's he who is in charge. Does one throw him overboard? ...one can
no longer ...we've tried enough to intervene ...he howls too loud when one
pushes him ...He has exhausted everybody … He must be in charge …

The Jew does not
fear anything ...He is afraid of only one thing: of Communism without Jews.

[6] Raymond Poincaré (1860-1934) was
French Prime Minister three times and President from 1913 to 1920. It is
significant that the professedly “pro-German” Céline chooses him, for Poincaré
was noted for his anti-German stance, championed the reoccupation of the Ruhr
at the Paris Peace Conference of 1919 and implemented it as Prime Minister in
1923.

[7] Édouard
Daladier (1884-1970) was Prime Minister of France three times between 1933 and
1940. He

[9] Georges Mandel (né George
Rothschild) (1885-1944) was a Dreyfusard and close associate of Clemenceau. He
served as cabinet minister in 1936 and again in 1938, but his active
participation in the French Resistance led to his execution in 1944.

[10] Paul Reynaud (1878-1966) was a
prominent anti-German politician who served briefly as Prime Minister in 1940.
He was arrested by Pétain in 1940 and handed over iin 1942 to the Germans, who
incarcerated him first in Germany and then in Austria until he was freed by
Allied troops in 1945.

[11] The Maginot Line was a fortified
line of defence that France constructed during the thirties on its borders with
Switzerland, Germany and Luxembourg.

[12] Paul Ferdonnet (1901-1945) was a French
journalist who authored a book entitled La guerre juive (The Jewish
war). He worked for Radio Stuttgart in the thirties under the National
Socialist regime and was executed for treason in 1945.

[13] The Royal Dutch Petroloeum
Company was a Dutch company set up in 1890. The Shell Transport and Trading
Company was a British company created in 1891. In 1907 the two companies were
amalgamated as the Royal Dutch Shell Group.

[14] Tartuffe is the
hypocritically pious protagonist of Molière's
play Tartuffe (1664).

[15]Bidasse was a character in a song
composed by Louis Bousquet in1914 representing a simple conscript soldier.

[16] Domenico Bernabei da Cortona, called
Boccador (ca.1465-1549) was an Italian architect who worked in France and
designed grain silos called “Poires d'Ardres” (Pears of Ardres).

[17] Tabarin was the pseudonym of
Anthoine Girard (ca.1584-1633), a street charlatan who sold quack medicines to
the public.

[18] Charles Fourier (1772-1837)
was an early socialist thinker who stressed the importance of cooperative work
and the distribution of wealth according to merit. He condemned trade as the
source of all evil and insisted that Jews, the typical traders, should be
forced to work on the land as farmers.

[19] Alfred Mascuraud (1848-1926) was a French
industrialist who created a “republican committee of commerce, industry and
agriculture” in 1898 that aimed at supporting petty businessmen

[20] Léon Blum (1872-1950) was a Jewish socialist
leader who served as Prime Minister of France between 1936 and 1938.

[22] Eugène de Rastignac is a character in Honoré
de Balzac's series of novels La Comédie humaine who represents a
successful social climber.

[23] SS Persic was an ocean liner that served as a
warship during the first World War but was later in 1920 converted into a
successful passenger ship.

[24] Julien Benda (1867-1956) was a Jewish novelist
who in his essay La Trahison des Clercs (1927) condemned what he
considered to be militant nationalism and racism in the writings of many
contemporary European intellectuals..

[25] Pietro Aretino (1492-1556) was an Italian
satirist whose writings attacked several political and religious figures of his
time.

[35] A member of La Cagoule, a French Fascist and
anti-Communist group that existed between 1935 and 1937.

[36] The De Wendels are a family of industrialists
whose iron and steel enterprises dated back to the early eighteenth century.
They were regarded as a symbol of French capitalism. The nationalisation of the
iron and steel industry in 1978 forced them to transform themselves into an
investment company.

[40] Hugues-Felicité de Lammenais (1782-1854) was a
French secular priest who began as a supporter of the Bourbon Restoration of
Louis XVIII in 1814 but gradually moved towards more socialist views which
conflicted with those of the Church.

[41] Édouard Drumont
(1844-1917) was a French journalist who founded the Anti-Semitic League of
France in 1889 and was one of the major anti-Dreyfusards during the Dreyfus
scandal. He published several anti-Semitic works including La France juive
(1886).

[42] Arthur de Gobineau (1816-1882) was a French
aristocrat whose Essai sur l'inégalité des races humaines (1855) was one
of the first major racialist works glorifying the white race, and particularly
its Aryan branch, as the highest.

[43] 'The Song of the Volga
Boatmen” is a traditional Russian folk-song.

[47] The unsuccessful flight of Louis XVI and Marie
Antoinette from Paris on June 20, 1791, in the hope of initiating a
counter-revolution, was curtailed at Varennes. It led to further charges of
treason against the king and his execution in 1793.

[51] The Fortress of Peter and Paul in St.
Petersburg was established by Peter the Great in 1703 and served as a Tsarist
prison in which Dostoevsky too was imprisoned. It fell to the Bolsheviks in
October 1917.

[52] A song and dance popular among republicans
during the French Revolution.

[53] The second and the third excerpts presented here run
continuously in the original.

[59] George Montandon (1879-1944) was a Swiss
French anthropologist and explorer whose works include a treatise of scientific
racism called La Race, les Races, mise au point d'ethnologie somatique
(1933) and the anti-Semitic article “L'origine des types juifs” (1926).

[60] Jules Michelet (1798-1874) was a French
historian who wrote major histories of the French Revolution and of France.
Though not an anti-Semite, his work Bible de' l'Humanité (1864) includes
a chapter on “Le juif- l'esclave” in which he remarks that “Tout le progrès des Juifs aboutit à la
stérilité profonde” (The entire march of the Jews ends in profound sterility)
and that “La grande et vraie gloire des Juifs qu’ils ont due à leurs misères,
c’est que, seul entre les peuples, ils ont donné une voix, une voix pénétrante,
éternelle, au soupir de l’esclave.” (The great and true glory of the Jews which
they owe to their misery is that they alone, among all peoples, gave a voice, a
penetrating and eternal voice, to the sighs of the slave).